


Wayward Princess

by PieWritesFics



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Alfred's twin!Reader, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Hostage Situations, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Princess!Reader, Runaway!Reader, Threats of Rape/Non-Con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-06 16:30:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16836340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PieWritesFics/pseuds/PieWritesFics
Summary: (Sigurd x FemChar Christian Princess)Synopsis:  You’re the stepdaughter of a Christian king who literally fell into Viking’s hands.Lucky for you, you may prove useful, and the Viking you landed on is more gentle than his brothers.





	1. Get Thee Away From the Nunnery!

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lisinfleur](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lisinfleur/gifts).



You trudged through the forest, fury driving you farther from your family and your step-father’s army with every step. Already it seemed to have been hours, but your anger still screamed at you despite the burn in your legs. _‘Of course he wants to be rid of me, he bloody hates me, but a convent?_ “You’ll be safe there, it’ll be so much better for us all” _\--better my foot! What does he think, that the nuns can beat the sin of my birth from me? Like they didn’t try!’_

So caught up were you in your seething, you missed the low river until you stepped in it. Water soaked into your shoes, and a string of curses left your mouth as you backed up quickly and tripped over a root. Your legs burned from walking so far, you were lost, your feet were soggy, and now you had a bruised ass to match your bruised dignity. Giving up, you let your head rest against the trunk of the offending tree and sigh. “Maybe if I just stay here, a wolf will come along and eat me,” you mumbled. It was almost preferable at this point.

Not caring anymore, you closed your eyes and let yourself doze, only to be awoken some time later by heavy footsteps through the underbrush.

_‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have wished for a wolf after all.’_

As quickly as you could, trying to be quiet, you pulled yourself up into the tree you’d been resting against. One branch, two, three, up, up, up like when you’d play in the garden with your brothers, until you were ten feet up and pressed belly-first to a limb like a cat. All the while the sounds came closer, and you felt your breath catch at the flash of golden hair below you.

Not a wolf, a man. A handsome one at that, from what you could see. He bent down to wash his face in the river, showing off the length of his beautiful hair and the strange leather armor he wore.

‘Northman,’ you realized, heart hammering in your chest. You’d heard about King Aelle’s defeat and execution, of course you had, though no one would tell you how they’d killed him. A lot of good that did you, now one of them was here.

A heavy wind blew through the forest as the man below you stood, making the branch you were attached to groan from your weight.

_**Snap!** _

The scream is knocked out of you when you land on him, the branch stuck between your bodies and bruising between your breasts and down your torso. The northman below you recovered quick, and the next thing you knew you were on your back at the water’s edge with an axe to your throat. Blue eyes glared down at you, one marked with the image of a serpent, and the memory of a conversation with a crippled prince. Talk of gods, and family, brothers....

The name spills off your tongue before you can stop it, making his pretty face twist further in confusion.

“Sigurd,” you gasp. “Sigurd snake-in-the-eye.”

You were alone in the woods with a son of Ragnar Lothbrok on top of you, with no help coming.

_‘Yeah,’ you thought, ‘the wolf may have been better.’_


	2. Muddled in Translation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sigurd's brothers get a good laugh, reader isn't entirely sure what's going on, and Ivar translates but he's still Ivar.

“Sigurd Snake-In-the-Eye.” You trembled, feeling the mud leech into your clothes from the weight of the Northman pressing you down. Your day had just gone from bad to potentially disastrous.

He barked something at you in his language, angling his axe upward so the blade pressed the underside of your chin. You didn’t understand the words, but you could guess it was probably something like, _“How do you know my name, Christian filth?”_

“Ivar,” you explained hastily, “I’ve met Ivar. Last year, at the castle. Please…”

If it was possible, he looked even more annoyed than before, but slowly moved the axe away from your neck. You recalled Ivar saying that of all his brothers, he got along with Sigurd the least; perhaps mentioning him hadn’t been the best thing you could have done for his mood.

“I’m sorry,” you tried, knowing he couldn’t understand your words but hoping he got the idea anyway. “I didn’t mean to fall on you, really. It was an accident, it won’t happen again.” Not as long as I don’t go trying to climb trees, at least.

Sigurd watched you coldly before huffing a bit and moving up into a crouch. The hand not holding his weapon reached out, grabbing onto your arm and pulling you to stand with him. His grip was harsh but not quite painful, just enough to know that it could be, if you gave him trouble.

“Fylgja á mir,” he said, jerking his head in direction and giving your arm a slight shake before beginning to walk you back the way he’d come. 

_Christ in Heaven, this is how I die,_ you lamented. _Captured by a heathen prince who is far too pretty for my own good! ...Well, it’s still better than being trapped forever in a convent, I suppose…_

After some time of internal drama on your part and silent plodding from the northman, the sounds of an army encampment began to filter through the trees. When the two of you exited the woods, the sight of the foreign warriors caused your heart to trip like a rabbit’s. Every instinct you had told you to struggle, to flee this place as you had fled from your stepfather, but Sigurd’s firm hold of you prevented that. 

Many of the warriors turned to gawk, but it was difficult to know if it was because one of their princes had come back with a random, well-dressed Saxon woman, or both of you being covered in mud from the river. A few called out, but the blonde ignored all of them, pulling you through the crowd; he clearly had a destination in mind, and that frightened you more than anything else at the moment. It was only when you came up to a small group sat around the remains of a cooking fire that you felt any relief. A familiar (if not necessarily friendly) face!

“Ivar!” you called, allowing yourself to sag a bit against Sigurd’s hold. “Ivar, my dear, sweet friend, you’ve no idea how happy I am to see you!”

Ivar and his two companions turned at your shout, clearly startled. Their eyes wandered over yourself and your captor as you drew closer, and the more they took in the more amused they all seemed. By the time Sigurd pulled you to a stop before them, Ivar was openly laughing. One of the northmen sitting with him was trying very hard not to do the same, biting his lips and snorting a bit as he suppressed it; the second was not trying in the least. He draped his arm around the shoulders of the first man for support, saying something or other to Sigurd through his cackling and nodding in your direction. Whatever he replied clearly didn’t help his cause, you noted, as both men burst out laughing once again, the blonde man slapping the redhead’s knee in his mirth.

Ivar watched you the entire time, licking at his teeth when he was able to control his amusement. “Princess,” he drawled. “Did you miss my stories that much that you wrestled my brother in the mud for a chance to hear more?”

“Prince Ivar, I confess: I seem to have fallen for Sigurd here.” The surprise on his face was worth the bad pun. “By which I mean, I fell from a tree and landed on top of him. Would you please, _please_ tell him how terribly sorry I am, and that he can let me go?”

 _“Let go of the woman, Sigurd. She’s not going to run off in the middle of our camp,”_ Ivar quipped in their own language.

 _“Oh, and she told you that did she?”_ His grip shifted, gentling a bit on your arm but not enough that an onlooker would notice.

 _“No,”_ Ivar replied, _“she said she was sorry for falling out of a tree like a frightened cat and landing on your fat head.”_

Sigurd opened his mouth to retort, but Hvitserk’s mouth was faster. _“What, this pretty thing just fell in your lap? Did you take her in the mud?”_ he asked, looking over the both of you. You couldn’t tell what he was saying, but his eyes raking you made you shift in discomfort. _“You must have done it well; she’s not crying in the least.”_

Sigurd rolled his eyes. _“I was at the river when she fell on me. We landed in the mud, I flipped her beneath me. Nothing else.”_

 _“Nothing?”_ Ubbe asked. A nod. _“Then why bring her back here? You could have gotten rid of her, but now she knows where we are camped.”_

 _“She kept saying Ivar’s name,”_ the blond spoke as though the sentence itself put a sour taste in his mouth. It probably did.

The brothers looked to their youngest with interest. _“Ivar?”_

He hummed a bit as though thinking. _“Yes, I know her. We met at Ecbert’s castle.”_

 _“And?”_ Hvitserk prompted when he didn’t continue. _“Who is she?”_

Ivar spoke your name and title, catching your attention. _“A princess of Wessex. That monk Athelstan had surprisingly potent seed, he planted twins in Princess Judith before going to France. The gods have dropped a woman of value into our laps today.”_

 _“Into my lap,”_ Sigurd corrected, beginning to see you as more of a prize than a burden with the new information. Still fairly gentle, he tugged you closer to him. If the gods saw fit to give him such a gift, he wasn’t about to share it.

 _“Onto your head,”_ Hvitserk chuckled, earning a stained glare and a smirk from Ivar.

No, you couldn’t understand any of what they were saying, but watching their expressions you wondered if Ivar hadn’t just gotten you even more into hot water.


End file.
